


A letter to mother

by b10f3m4l3



Category: Dimension 20 (Web Series)
Genre: Gen, Letters, War, Werecat, lycanthropy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-28
Updated: 2020-07-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:02:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25579294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/b10f3m4l3/pseuds/b10f3m4l3
Summary: Pecan Cashnut is not a person anymore. So she writes a letter to her mother about it.
Kudos: 3





	A letter to mother

**Author's Note:**

> THIS IS JUST,, A WARM UP 1k WORD FIC I WROTE IN 1/2 AN HOUR,, IHGFVHJK,, SORRY,, KUDOS AND COMMENTS APPRECIATED BUT DONT FEEL FORCED.

Dearest Mother,

Do not fear, I know that you are dead (for it must have been years since I left the nunnery, left the scorn of Mother Superior, left you crying on your bed) , I am not mad, I have not been driven wild by my affliction. I am thoroughly undeluded to your demise. I find comfort in writing these letters though, they sooth the violent soul that rests within me, and somehow makes me feel… less afraid of the war that is to come.

I should fill you in on what I’ve been doing these past few years, since I gathered up my nun’s habit and burnt it (and the church) to a caramel-coated cinder. I think it started really, long after you fell down with your sickness (and I with mine, when that Fructeran Soittokello witch bestowed such a terrible feline curse on me), when the nuns chained me in the basement every full moon’s eve, and despite my shrieks and yowls, never would let me free from the searing silver that bound me. They, as miracleworkers (much like you) could smell the hungry one on me, the stench of war and blood and dark shadows that move and rip out your throat in the night. I did not know this, all I knew was that the women who raised me had turned on me, beating me and scorning me and fearing me. Could you blame me for going a little wild? For becoming the monster they feared I was? Could you?  _ Could you? _

So that was why, on that moonlit night, on my fourteenth birthday, when they tried to yet again restrain me, that I fought back, reaching to strike Mother Superior Whea Etthin in her dry, pale, smug face. I didn’t know that my arm (which i had expected to be the spongy, soft fluff I normally sported) would be so covered in thick white buttercream, and that my now-furry hands would be tipped with sharp claws, such as that which would rip grooves into a woman's face (like the grooves I carved in the dear Mother Superiors face).

At the time I had thought I was blessed, that I had cast a miracle. Now I know the truth, that the way my rage filed down to a point inside me, as I clawed and scratched and kicked the nuns around me, was not bulbian, nay, it was the more elusive, silent destruction of the hungry one. I was its hand in the night, slitting throats without thought or compassion. I killed most, if not all of the other nuns, Mother. I could not say I cared for them in the end. At that point you were still able to leave your infirm position to cook for yourself, and wash yourself. I wasn’t leaving you to die, I would never do such a thing. Though, Mother, I do hope that, as my new paws thudded against the floor, and I dragged my nuns habit to the pulpit with my newly-grown lynx fangs, you were lying in your bed, and not praying in the church. This is because, as I shedded my cat skin and became once again the Carrotcake Person I was, I felt a power inside me. I ripped and shredded at my insides, tearing and shredding and pulling me apart. And then I exhaled, and a great hellish inferno of fire erupted out of me, twisting and turning and carbonising everything in its path. I very much doubt any bit of the church lay in little more than char, as I pounced and bounded off into the empty night. 

Since that time I have frolicked, I have killed. A man tried to hunt me for my buttercream pelt and I tore out his vegetanian throat with my white chocolate teeth. I’m not ashamed to say I ate him, because he wasn’t the last. This wasn’t because I was starving, but simply because no longer does my human body satisfy my needs. I must be a cat, I am a cat. From the soft pink pads of my paws and the pale white fluff around my muzzle to the gristle between my teeth and the sharp pinpoints of my ears, I am no longer just Pecan Cashnut, I am something else, an Emissary of the Night, a flash of white in the inky black. I am the blood spilt of the floor of a cottage and the screams of the family finding the corpse. I am the Cat, the assassin, the reaper’s calling card. And, unlike when I stood with you in the nunnery, I am not alone in the shadows. Many more of the cursed, the aberrations, stand by my side. Many of them harbour rage, and fear, and bloodlust, and they despise the light and all it touches. They wish to destroy the bulb, to kill every paladin, every primogen, every miracle worker. Even the green pontifex, upon her golden throne, does not escape their wrath. 

The bulb may preach of light, but only darkness lays in its future, and only death for its people. This merry band of misfits is only the beginning, I will command a great, dark army, and we will overrun a million churches. We will destroy all until no twinkling of the bulb's oppressive gaze is left on our Calorum, and shadow is all that remains. Please do not think badly of me as I know you must, my motivation is not skewed, I am not evil, and I only wish to destroy the bulb because it sought fit to cast you down with such an illness as that which killed you. I am only thinking of you, in all that I do. The bulb is strong, Mother, but I am beyond strength. I am everything and I am everywhere, I am the hunter and I am the wolf it hunts. I am the end, and I will fulfill my purpose.

Much love

Your dearest Kitten, Pecan Cashnut.


End file.
